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uhhh... right. Time to go back.

Rhyme Time!

Poetry O' Me Own





Pebbles for a Pentecostal Church Mouse



Was a church mouse

Her home was a hole in the wall.


Sunday mornings

Were quite the spectacle

As she peeked through cracks

In thousand years old



Where in wonder,

People raised hands

Struggling against the Fall.



Was confused:

Was that oriental discipline

Or did they hold aloft

Their god?


Tiny and scorned

Charity squeaked and lived

And to hers

It was good and

Wholly holy.


Truly enough
(For a stoning).





we are in love


When we're dancing
We are most alive,
Pushing through the ring
Of clapping folk
Willing to break the mold.

When we're dancing
We're laughing
Looking pretty
Breaking a spat of
Tasty groovin'.

It's toothsome and well,

Nice.  We know how
To have fun
Earnestly and like strobes,

We are thinkers
And we've come to
The heavy yolk
That holds them down.

Introspection is a plumb
Line.  Plumb tuckered
When we're dancing cheek to cheek
In my tux,
In your gown.






I'm asking permission
To take your hand
For a sip-slap conversation.

The window seat is
An offering for view -
You'll see baggage passing
Calloused palms
Piled high on rusty bed
After bed.

Damaged goods transfer
At Grand Central
Where they're inspected for
Scratches and scuff
Marks and

They're snaking through the terminal.

They'll tumble down the chute
Onto an ogling line but
Some pass more hands than others.

They're blurred alike but only one is mine.
How many are yours.

Regardless and so,
We'll have a sip
Or I'll take over
Where they left it.





         Most Days


       Some days, he sits, smiles and stares

       The world to oblivion, and life not a care.


       Some days, he fidgets, frenzied and foolish

       World chasing and biting, monstrous and ghoulish.


       Other days, he feels deep and profound



       Once in awhile, heís just angry and tired

       The world is criminals, enemies, liars.


       Every day, he is criminal, enemy and liar

       A burning tyrant, nero, fire.






How You See Things


You are in the dark corner of the world

Where cobwebs grow thick and memories

Grow thicker.


You are in a bowl where fish swim or

Rather float.


You are cracked in places, creeping like veins

Over your brain and even deeper places

Spilling kith and kin.


But life is more than you think.


For every hundredth break and misshapen hand,

A child is born in a manger.

For every lamentation, a song.

But people are caught in frozen moments of jocularity

Long seconds of hilarity -

Living moments of clarity. 


    Itís perpetual,

    If you let it be.


People are sincere if youíll let them be.


Smiles are smiles

Laughter is laughter.


Catch it and cup it in your hands

Colors flying like the smile that broke

Across dry land or
Noahís grizzled face.







rubbernecking or a fun story to tell


Life is simply a hard sprint

Through the traffic

Of swinging fists and

Pummeling profanity

Or pornography blatant

Like cars honking in



People slam horns, whistle

And point digits

Driving slowly through

Bottlenecked boulevards where

Someone sits dying or

Weeping or

Wondering or

Sleeping ignorant

Slumped on a wheel.


Thatís life.


Or is it more

Like an apple pie? 

  A slice of Americana

  And a vision in the sky:

  That sustains you

  And exhumes you

  Prophets raging and

  Telling you

  That your time was



Turn up the radio and

Sing:  La-di-dah.







Weathered Pews


A tenuous beast of disparate voices

Lifting songs of the abstract

And long off Ė

A wayís away.


From number crunchers swallowed

By ledgers and firm formulae.


Chalkboard pedagogy, red pens

Marking come and go

Mapping the future per diem.


Vaudeville dappers with their

Silk Road cravats,

Sealing the deal last week.


To candy stripers slaving away

Wiping wounds, ogled by

Sickly men.


They come with the learned sway of

Reeds that bend and

Quite the contrary,

Sometimes break.


Their voices rising, thoughts everywhere

Floating or waiting

For the Beautiful Bludgeon to

Bludgeon, bludgeon, bludgeon

Bludgeon, bludgeon







the mark of hands

Youíve tumbled from womb
Hung by a cord
Floating above
A murky mess
Of paradigms.

And so youíll cry
All your life,
Wondering why you left it.

A tiny fist
Clenched with vigor
Shaking frustrations
At a shiny, brave world.

Or maybe itís celebration
(Albeit confused)
Like swinging a mug
For auld lang syne.






                Crosswalk, Wilshire and Union


            Strange how a pin dropped in a cave

            Reverberates until you hear it

            And even see it

                And fear it.


            Iím carrying two bags

            Made of plastic.


            In one bag, my left hand

            Contains a carton of milk, sweet from the cow

            A carton of juice, plucked from the tree

            A bag of granola, a habit from youth.


            In my right hand, the other

            Full of bread to live on

            Sugar to dwell on

            Cereal to chew on during

            Tired mornings

            When I have no place to go.


            Iím just swimming in crap

            And I can point my fingers

            Call it sunshine

            Hope it sprouts sunbeams

            But itís still stinkiní up this

            Lifetime (and then some).


            Late night TV screeches

            A loud black and white

            And Iím happy tonight


                That's his

                Damn Story.




At the Frontal Lobes Cafe


Curtain flutters and you feel a draft.


Everything matters to you

But doesnít matter at all

But youíre scrambling around

As if today is the day

It all happens.


But nothing is going to happen

Because thatís

How things work

Even though

Nothing works

So Iíve got a good feeling.


 The door was left open

 In came the cold.

 The iceman was frozen

 And he -

        He was old.


Curtain flutters and you feel adrift.



Best Western Lobby

Sauntering through the Cabana

The party in fully rosy swing

Einstein and Hepburn are laughing

Gandhi, Mandela, they sing


Acquaintance is auld and forgotten

Oppenheimer juggles a bomb!

Alfred Nobel waiting patiently

His reward is a dance to this song.


Limelight on stage, Marilyn whispers

Sultry: a World is progressing

Thesis, antithesis, synthesis, new

Innovation and violence undressing


Atlas, he strains, globe shifting

Cubism blends our worldviews

Nouns in the bag, looking for light

We're boarding the Ark, two by two.





Daisy Fay's Green Haze


Weíre nothing but beasts of burden

Like Janosí donkey*

He thinks.


Some go up

Some go down

The world is Escher

Tumbling every which way

On stairs.



Itís a happy time for

This jumpy speakeasy

Where weíll drink giggle water

And watch the dancing flappers

Laugh on laps

Like they mustíve

For Gatsby.


Weíll be old and grey

Wearing our old and green

Laurels and garlands

  Pumping our fists

  Dropping our canes

  Watching the moon

      Wane over the sunset

      Three sixty and five.






mazel tov


I would like to dance with you

A slow affectionate waltz

Played by a big band

Of angels

Cheered by our hope.


I would like to hold you

Near me

When Iím blue.


My first kiss was with


And a better tomorrow

Light refracting and twisting

Off gutter puddles.

A mole digging a hole


A mound upside-down.


Thatís where you wait.


'Til we swim with the fishes

And five loaves of bread.





Well, What's Honest


Heís honest like fresh air but sheís taken aback.

He sees life in sweeping panoramas and

The sun is always shining someplace if not here.

Heíll stand like Moses on the mountaintop Nebo

But sheíll be sad because clouds are gathering


How many see the Promised Land

For him, grand visions and she is there!

For her, seeds of doubt sprout

Stuck in the middle of







Tuesday / Wednesday


I walked outside and breathed in the rain

Thinking of Meaning.

Breathing a sigh of something sweet

Yet bitter as all hell

Thinking of Meaning.


I stared at a City Sky

Clouded over with dark puffs

Of stuff waiting to happen,

Wanting to stand and rage where

Everyone is a bitter Old Man

Too tired of life as he cries for milk.


I stepped out the door and felt the morning damp

Thinking of Meaning

And a place to stand

Where everyone is buoyant, green

Trusting in Something

Rife with Meaning.


           The cynic is lifeless, broken in too

                        Many places where You

                        and I can still have Hope.





Our Friend the Atom


Hereís proton: positive, you surmise

Full of spunk, empty of wise.


There sulks neutron, a nonplussed sort

Dead weight to the total, ballast for tort.


Fling away you electrons; youíre hurting my eyes

Tango around like quick whyís and lies.


Dancing elephants and falling buildings

Youíre all the same thing, just tiny dots



Two nights ago, I had the pleasure of bumping into Atom, quite an event. 

Turns out he isnít just one but three, an invisible trinity.


Heaven is when

They split. 


The atom came ready, carrying his head high

Soap to stand on and dreams to confide.






We Dance on a Thin Edge


Hope is a dancer

Sultry as can be

You arenít permitted a touch

But you can see

That she moves to a rhythm hidden.


Her name was Truth Ė

A horrible liar

Trapped in a yellow briar

And leaves us weeping.


Blow me a kiss of all timeís sand

Iíll soak it to spilling

And make some plans

For something worthwhile.


Destiny is pretty

She wears a cotton dress

Billowing simple

Like freckles.


Faith, you are a stopple

To a demijohn of foes

Poured out in ladling dregs

     Of woe.


Love is ever primping

The winking girl of Troy

But Iím ever thinking

      Itís a ploy.


          Feet above head

          Head above feet

                  And repeat.




   Moment's Freedom


            Falling, tumbling

                Twisting with



            Through the clouds

                Blind and Ferocious

                Thoughts Wild and Slow


            Into pools of feeling and the Rumbling

            Being the rat-tat-tat of guns and the Mean.




Tap Your Foot on a Crowded Place


Scooting my Vespa

A giggly Hepburn in tow.


Street urchin Ė searchiní

Little car Ė goiní far


Have you ever squirmed yourself

Drenched in a dark pool of

Flip-flip sardines.

Oily muck Ė your briny



Drink a hot Mediterraneo day.

Your shirt sticks to your back so

        Peel it like an orange or a wet piece of

        Paper that lands on a tile



Waiting patiently for

Something to Change

Because clock fixation lasts

Only a few weeks or

A short season





Swashbucklerís Dream


I walked the plank last week, sabers rattling behind.

I am Errol Flynn sans tights.

I still have dreams.



Before you cynically sneer

Show me yours

And even then


I know what youíre thinking because thatís who Iíd be

But for every ounce of being

That wonít agree

That swings its fists and

Rages against those sullen faces

In happy places.


Ever the dreamer and thinker. 


Sullen faces in happy places

A polemic launched by angry races

All stymied by the graces


Of beautiful living.



My Apologia


Whatís your take on the

State of Humanity

While weíre all grappling

With the terms of We

When weíre just beasts

Inside slumbering Snores

Who donít really give much


My apologies





Enjoy the sun-baked Coolness of

Your politico-slop and postmod-muck

Flinging it around like itís the

Greatest thing on earth

When all youíre doing is robbing



Those Marlboro fools

Itís Hollywood cool

To be cynical.



City: Traffic


Hope smoke floats

Just yea over our heads

Like Big City haze

But prettier

And according to

Most folk,

Good for us.


Shed tears gladly

Water gardens blooming

Prosperity in a world that

Would care



Groaning beasts sway

Under the horn

Of dawn that cracks

Whips with

Utmost concern.


Big dreams rising

Like skyscrapers

That touch the sky

And kiss the hand

Of God.


Love and feeling

Hate and despair

But don't be late.


Everything and

All at once.





Itís a body in there, somewhere

Floating to, fro, over

The inward workings of

A Beating Heart

Beating a rhythm through

The belly of Three

Ready and waiting

To throw you out

Of your Grinding hole

Daily as you lay

There eaten away

By the brine and dark

Deep dark below

Your thoughts of purpose

The ebb and flow


Itís a body on there, somewhere

Touched by the lapping water

Of a rising cell there

Where you once slept

Hidden and punished

For running away.



Thinking Gravity

Pretzel-legged lotus sits

Beneath a tree and breathes:

Waiting for the Enlightenment

Train to rumble by

With loads of red

Apples Newton.


If you pay

Attention and keep

Your senses rapt

Youíre apt to catch one.


If I found one

Iíd eat it in


Nine point eight two

Meters per second



Which means weíre

Falling in




The Wise

Hereís a man ready to be glorified

For homespun, streetspun



A gaunt face, lean with the Years

And eyes that stare deep

Scanning the restaurant

With knowing glances.


There is little to fidget, little to Grovel

Because I rest on weariness

And this steaming cup of Joe:


Steaming the Civil into my cracked hands

Drawing the Past into my nose

When I complained that it was bitter

But I drink this cup

And I see things.





               They sang Balm of Gilead
               Not long after his passing

               At the behest of the Living

               Still enthralled by his

               Evanescent glow and

               Winsome smile that

               Only insisted on a

               Choral accompaniment.


               In waking days, he was

               Quick to smile and embrace

               His neighbor, a grown man

               Ever youthful somehow

               Drinking life in sudsy

               Draughts and laughter


               And perhaps heíd hear

               Their voices at Deathís dream

               High and pretty seem

               Like the seraphim

               That sustained him




Hombre Waiting


You are a sombre hombre

Who sits dejected in an alley

Shadowed by your own volition

Poured throat through tequila

Into your piggy belly

That oinks for more

But youíre just tired

Of the haberdash

And mish-mash

The people-feature,

The Nomencreature,

The huddled mass of

Fingers (pointing) and cultures (dancing):

Stupefied by the idiocy

Of your and my




With Considerable Difficulty


These are the pews

Where I used to sit

When I was a little boy

Full of wide-eyed wonder

Over stories of

Moses smiting a rock

      And there was water for all.

But he was punished for

One moment of

Frustration and

Even as a kid

I thought I wouldíve

Done the same

So I was

Afraid of



This the song

I used to sing with

So much passion

Excitement and

Even euphoria.


Remember the story

Of Jonah and how

He once fled

Like an ant that

Scampers beneath your

Fat thumb and

Sings glory

Glory on high

In ant




It seems strange that

Weíd apologize for

Not being



Nobody has bolts

In their neck

Holding their head

In place but

We all wonder in

Milton Secret:


Did I solicit

Thee to bring

Me out of





Empty Streets Closed      

About the size of us:

Itís full of pin-striped suits

And Headline news mixed

With the riff-raff smell

Of rags and axle grease

And beanies for the winter

And a shopping cart to

Push your wares.  Soaked

With the drunkenness of

A wobbly twilight of

Booze and vermouth and

Scotch if youíre lucky

Maybe the smell of Chanel.


Sheís a baglady pushing

Around a cart full of

Things she canít

Sell or




You still go alone.



Life Blossoms


The sun beat down on

A heart chapped

By wind and cold

Sometimes happy

Already old.


    Gloom blooms.


Still, wind on

Dunes blew


Like the tunes

Of a didgeridoo

Singing to you.


    (Gloom dooms.)


And you rested

In the warm glow

Of snow

From heaven

That tickled your


And after




    (We grope for hope.)


We all try to mask it

Beats in a basket.


   Crib to casket.



Good Friday

The signal turned green some

Time ago

So the people started

Their move toward

Dreams of bigger homes

More love and laughter

Than they had at

The moment

We all face when weíre

Dealing with the




Comes silent -

Hoarse whispers

Of hallelujah

For what's to come.



  curse the bread

  keep this on the downlow

  because you never know

  who might surmise to

  drop eaves on the backward

  tickings of grey



  richard cory was seen with

  a red-spilling head trickle

  but the papers are tricky;

  i saw him dancing with all

  the pretty ladies just last night



  but that could be ghost



  and as he dropped libations

  with his wizened hands

  his face caught reflection

  looking forlorn




    with all the Lookers winking

    because they know

    the papers are tricky.



Life Blossoms


The sun beat down on

A heart chapped

By wind and cold

Sometimes happy

Already old.


    Gloom blooms.


Still, wind on

Dunes blew


Like the tunes

Of a didgeridoo

Singing to you.


    (Gloom dooms.)


And you rested

In the warm glow

Of snow

From heaven

That tickled your


And after




    (We grope for hope.)


We all try to mask it

Beats in a basket.


   Crib to casket.



 Adam Smith and the Wineskins

Take one down and pass it around
Hereís an economy for everyone: 

    Life is a dream, a cup spilling over

    Foaming like everyoneís lager

      You drink it for mirth

      You slurp it for worth

      You order a round for good measure.


    Send me a barrel

    Iíll roll down the aisle

    Wed to your sorrows of morrow;

    Roll me a ciggie

    Iíll puff til Iím dizzy

    Your gods and your pleasures to borrow.


    So pass it around and donít be so greedy,

    The economy of life is so bullish!

    Push ever onward

    To climb ever higher

    Thereís Icarus caught in the moment.


Perhaps Iím a beggar, Saunder Simpcoxe

Sporting a sign ever ready,

Ignoring the Maker

Digging for Change

Looking for hope to recycle.

I sign.

Will work for a miracle

Bum a roam to Siloam.






When I was young

  Faith was Matter-of-fact

  Like the hours-long rough-housing fun

  Of splashing in the summer pool

  When we used to throw ice at a swarm

  Of angry wasps Ė the water our laughing fortress.


Later, it was the caped hero mask

  That gave me purpose and footing

  On wooden beams, everything crumbling

  Around a sometimes secret identity.


Still, faith was worn like a lettermanís jacket

  Setting me apart, making me chosen

  (maybe Iíd date the cheerleader too)

  Colors black and white in a world filmed grey.

  And I read the Good Book with gusto.


Now, faith is still here

  But different:

  It offers grey.


When Iím honest

I look and see

Doubt and regret

Like the weekend

Stubble that countenances me.

But I donít dwell on it more than need be.


         And I say Grace for food

         And rest content under

         The sun that brights my face

         White like heaven and the

         Sound of children laughing.




Hope Weds a Moment of Clarity


Silk maps were issued in the

         Second World


              To guide men

              Scanning the horizon

              Though the skies

              Gave little

              Bearing or




     Rob a bank

     Or go for broke and

     Make it


       Thereís a lot

        In those

        Registers and

        Iíve got the keys

        To the Holiest of



    Heaven is an

    Unknown but I believe

    It is more than

    Something here

    After a hard

    Day at the office.


    But I itemize my

    Life and think

    I might live like

    A hog in the fat



    (cat in the mouse house?)


             The world - my miracle oyster,

             Blueberry pancakes,

             Sweet sausage and a slice


                                    Of dreams.




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